


Last Christmas

by siriusblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Greg is Sweet, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Protective Mycroft, Sharing a Bed, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 14:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16812154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: In the spirit of friendship, Greg pretends to be Mycroft's partner on a very difficult final visit to Musgrave Hall at Christmas. Despite everything there's a little Christmas magic in the air...





	Last Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Mystrade Holiday 2018 collection. Massive thanks to bookjunkiecat and bryntwedge for the beta. You guys are the best.
> 
> TW: Terminal illness please read the tags.

LAST CHRISTMAS

  
  
  


Greg Lestrade might not have been the intellectual peer of the man sitting across from him but he didn't have to be a genius to see that something was bothering Mycroft Holmes.

Greg thought he had come to know him quite well in the years since Sherlock had entered his life like a tornado wreaking havoc wherever he went.

It had started with the feeling he was being watched, swiftly followed by the black car abduction and interrogation. 

Things had become a lot more civilised over the intervening years; coffee at the Diogenes, the occasional dinner in places Greg would normally only set foot in in the course of his day job due to their eye watering prices, a number Greg had on speed dial should Sherlock become too out of control that was always answered whatever time he made the call.

Ever since John Watson had limped into Sherlock's life, things had calmed down considerably but the regular meetings between Greg and Mycroft continued.Initially Greg thought it was because Mycroft thought he needed watching. He had since revised his opinion. He was convinced Mycroft Holmes was the loneliest man in the world though why he should spend his limited free time with a slightly shop-soiled DI was a puzzle Greg had been unable to solve. He had his suspicions but they were yet to be confirmed.

“Damn and blast!” Mycroft exclaimed and Greg was brought back to the here and now to the sight of a red wine stain spreading across the tablecloth and Mycroft's frantic attempts to mop it up.

“Hey,” said Greg. “You'll ruin the napkin as well.”

He had meant it as a joke but could have bitten his tongue off when he saw Mycroft's stricken expression.

Greg gestured to the waiter.

“We'll take a couple of brandies at another table so you can get this in to soak.” Greg gestured at the red liquid soaking into the snow white linen. “Sorry about that.”

The waiter directed them to a table nearby and returned quickly with two snifters of French brandy. Once the man was out of earshot, Greg leaned over and touched Mycroft on the arm.

“What's the matter, Mycroft? You've been on edge all night.”

“It's nothing, Gregory.” Mycroft replied, refusing to look his dinner companion in the eye.

“Bollocks. Even when the PM makes one of their colossal arse-ups you're never as stressed as you are tonight. We're not about to declare war on someone, are we?”

Mycroft's bark of laughter was a welcome sound but there was no mirth in it.

“Come on, Mycroft. We're sort of friends. If there's anything I can do to help, you just need to ask.”

Mycroft looked at the handsome man across from him, genuine compassion shining in his warm brown eyes and sighed heavily. He had known coming here tonight had been a mistake but the thought of not seeing Gregory until the New Year had been too much for a man heavy with grief and responsibilities. Surely he could be allowed one evening of sweetness in the midst of a tragedy?

Yet this incredible man would not have risen as far as he had were he not exceptionally good at his job. At detecting when things were not as they should be. Mycroft knew he wouldn't get out of this restaurant without Lestrade gleaning some sort of answer but Mycroft saw no harm in sidestepping the question a little first 

“Tell me, Gregory. Have you seen much of my brother recently?” Mycroft asked.

“Not really. Not since the Knightsbridge hangings, certainly. I thought that would have cheered you up, though. You know, Sherlock keeping a low profile.”

“My brother and Doctor Watson are out of the country at present. He is assisting the Justice Department in America at my behest and will not return until…”

He choked at the sudden rush of emotion that tightened his chest and brought tears to his eyes. And alarm to his companion's.

He waved away Lestrade's concern. Confession was supposed to be good for the soul, was it not?

“Until it is all over. I need to spare him this, Gregory. And this time he has John to console him as opposed to the heroin wrap. Sadly that was not the case previously.”

“Mycroft,” said Greg, gently. “You're not making any sense.”

Mycroft could barely look at him for if he spoke the truth, it might make it real.

“My mother is dying, Gregory.”

“Oh, Christ. Mycroft, I'm sorry. I dunno what to say.”

“There is little you  _ can _ say. She has ovarian cancer which has metastasized. Her doctors give her till the new year at best.”

Mycroft started slightly as Greg took his hand and held it. Bizarrely, Mycroft felt comforted.

“That's awful. I'm truly sorry, Mycroft. Especially since you've got to cope with this on your own. At Christmas too.”

“I prefer it this way. She has full time nursing care and I speak to her every day, go down whenever I can and make sure she wants for nothing. I will be spending Christmas with her this year as she requested. Two days of her trying and failing not to be disappointed that not only have I failed to provide her with grandchildren, I have also failed to find myself a suitable man to spend my life with.”

A ghost of a smile twitched Mycroft's lips at Greg's surprised expression.

“You didn't know? Tut, tut Inspector.”

“Oh, I had my suspicions,” admitted Greg. “It just isn't something you bring up in casual conversation. I mean I'm an open book, especially to someone like you and Sherlock, I suppose I just assumed that you made your own arrangements.”

Mycroft sighed and shook his head.

“Not for many years, regretfully.”

“Fair enough. Look, let me take you home. You look exhausted and you taking ill won't help the country. Or your mum.”

“Always so perceptive. Thank you, Gregory.”

As he waited outside for Greg to bring the car around, Mycroft shivered in his cashmere coat. Snow was forecast but the sky was clear, whatever stars could be seen were twinkling in competition with the Christmas lights strung all along the street.

Greg drew up beside him and Mycroft got in, grateful for the warmth of the interior.

Greg spared his passenger a glance. He had seen Mycroft under pressure before but this was personal and he ached for him.

Then he spoke, every word carefully weighted.

“Look, Mycroft. I hate to think of you having to manage this alone. It’s shit. I'd really like to help.”

“I don't see how you can, Gregory.”

“Here's a mad idea. I'm off at Christmas this year. Why don't I come to your mum's with you for support?”

“Why on earth would you inflict that on yourself?” Mycroft asked.

“Mostly because I think you need a friend right now and that's what friends do. Help each other. If it makes it easier, I'd just be at home on my own watching crap telly and drinking too much. Not to mention the M&S Festive Meal For One.” Greg shivered at the thought. “Cooking's no fun on your own. You could always pretend I was your boyfriend. Might set her mind at rest.”

A speechless Mycroft Holmes was a rare sight indeed and Greg grinned to himself as they pulled up outside Mycroft's house.

“Think about it, yeah? There's still a couple of weeks to go.”

“I will...consider it, Gregory.”

“Fair enough. Goodnight.”

Greg waited until Mycroft had let himself into his house before driving off. He was halfway back to his flat when his phone chimed with a text message. He waited until he had parked his car and switched off the engine before he checked it. He chuckled aloud as he read.

**_I think you are certifiably insane for wanting to do this. Before I agree we must meet to discuss tactics. Call me when you are next available. Thank you, Gregory. MH._ **

*

  
  


_ One week to go _

“I'll do the cooking for Christmas dinner.”

“Agreed, Gregory. Providing I supply the ingredients. No sprouts.”

“What? It's not Christmas without Brussels sprouts!”

“It is in the Holmes household. And don't pout, you fiendish man. There are many other vegetables that are suitable accompaniments to turkey.”

“Fine. Now, how do you feel about Christmas pudding?”

*

_ Two days to go. _

“I'll drive.”

“My chauffeur…”

“Is a family man who would probably appreciate a couple of days with his wife and kids. No, I'll get us there and back. And don't disappear into your mind bungalow. This is happening.”

  
  


*

_ Christmas Eve _

  
  


In the end, Mycroft conceded and Greg drove the pair of them down to Musgrave aided and abetted by the Christmas traffic and his sat nav’s eccentric directions, the boot stuffed with food and presents and a pair of overnight bags.

Greg was thrilled at the sight of Mycroft's childhood home, a poem in Cotswold stone lightly dusted with snow. It was pretty enough for a Christmas card as was the village they had driven through to get there.

Mycroft looked pale as Greg parked on the gravel and Greg gave him his most reassuring smile.

“It'll be fine. Just go with it, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded, his jaw clenched and his expression set.

The door was answered by a middle-aged woman in a crisp uniform, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears. The three of them stood in the hallway so Mycroft and Greg could take off their coats and gloves.

“Mr Holmes, how lovely to see you.”

“How is she?” Mycroft was brusque but the nurse didn't seem offended, though Greg winced.

“About the same. She's really excited about you bringing your boyfriend for Christmas.”

“I'm a bit old to be anyone's boyfriend,” said Greg, bestowing a dazzling smile on the nurse. “Partner, maybe. Greg Lestrade.”

“Hazel Warner. I'm Mrs Holmes’ nurse.”

They shook hands and she ushered the two men into the living room where a fire was burning merrily in the hearth and, wrapped in a blanket and as close as she could get to the blaze without setting herself on fire, sat Violet Holmes.

Mycroft was proud to have spent so many years schooling his expression so his shock at the deterioration in his mother's condition could be easily concealed. It had only been a few days but it was clear that it would not be long now.

“You're letting the cold in,” complained Mrs Holmes.

Mycroft stood rigid as he always did as if uncertain what to do with himself but Greg had no qualms. He crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of the chair.

“Mrs Holmes, I'm Greg Lestrade, Mycroft's partner. It's a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The hand he took gently in his own could have belonged to an octogenarian, so brittle did the bones feel and how thin the skin yet when he looked into her eyes, Mycroft's eyes, he saw how the disease had raged through her like a forest fire leaving only ash, and the dull shine of seriously strong opiates.

“Hello, Gregory. Mycroft has told me all about you. He got quite giddy at one point. I didn't expect you to be so handsome, though.”

“He can get carried away with himself,” agreed Greg, standing up.

“Mikey, I got Magda to make up your old room for you both.”

“Thank you, Mummy. I'm sure we'll be quite comfortable. Gregory, I'll help you unload the car.” Mycroft replied.

While Greg unpacked the food for next day's dinner, Mycroft took their bags upstairs, each tread bringing back memories he would sooner forget. He automatically avoided the squeaky floorboard outside the bathroom and, bracing himself, opened the door to his childhood bedroom.

Greg found him there some time later, perched on the corner of the king size bed with his head in his hands.

“Hey,” said Greg. “Your mum's having a nap and I wondered what was keeping you.”

“There's only one bed, Gregory.”

“It's not the end of the world,” said Greg cheerfully. “It's big enough for at least four people and I did bring proper pyjamas. You don't snore, do you?”

To his own amazement, Mycroft smiled.

“Not that I'm aware.”

“Well then. We'll be fine. Come on,  _ The Muppet Christmas Carol  _ is on in ten minutes and I don't want to miss it!”

Greg pulled Mycroft upright and led him by the hand downstairs.

*

_ This is practically how I always wanted Christmas to be. No responsibilities other than watching ludicrous TV, making more popcorn and the most glorious man in creation by my side with his arm around my shoulders and me snuggled so close I can almost breathe him in. Why can't this be real? Why does the magic carpet have to fall to earth on Boxing Day? _

“Are you alright, love?” Greg asked.

“Yes, I'm just daydreaming,” confessed Mycroft. Greg smiled and pecked him on the cheek, not missing the delighted pinking that followed his careless gesture.

_ I love it when you get all flustered by a simple gesture and I don't think I've ever seen you as casually dressed as this. I love how your socked feet are nudging up against mine on the pouffe and how you're so close I can smell the remnants of this morning's aftershave. It's too bad that things will have to go back the way they were after Christmas. What harm would it do if there were more nights like this? Or should I just enjoy these few days while they last? _

“Mrs Holmes, are you sure you still want to go?” Greg asked. “It's bloody freezing outside.”

“I haven't missed Midnight Mass since my first Christmas here, Gregory. I don't intend to miss my last. And do call me Violet.” 

“Better make sure you're wrapped up then. Where's Hazel?”

“She will be back in the morning to refill the syringe driver but I thought since there would be three of us here, we could manage. She's on-call, don't worry, and she left this delightful item for me to carry the driver in.”

Violet looked at the bright blue carrying case with distaste.

“If you put it in your large Louis Vuitton, Mummy, then it might be less conspicuous.” Mycroft suggested.

“Clever boy. Gregory, would you be so kind as to fetch it? It's in the cupboard under the stairs.”

Greg obliged with the handbag and they were on their way, Greg driving slowly till they reached the village church. 

Violet clung to both of them until they could settle her in a handy pew, then the service commenced.

Greg only went to church for the usual hatchings, matchings and dispatchings but seeing Violet take comfort from the familiar words and rituals, her face alight with pleasure, warmed Greg's heart. Unseen, he took Mycroft's hand and held it tight. Mycroft squeezed it in return, grateful for the support.

When the service was over, both men were astonished by the attention lavished on Violet by the other attendees. After being introduced as ‘'my son's partner, Gregory.” and having his hand warmly shaken by half the congregation, Greg was ready for a brandy.

“Come along, Mummy.” Mycroft insisted. “Time to go home.”

She faltered as she stood so Greg scooped her up and carried her to the car. She weighed so little he thought he could probably have carried her to London without breaking a sweat.

Mycroft took his mother upstairs and helped her into bed while Greg poured a couple of hefty measures of brandy for them, then switched off the lights so that the only illumination came from the dying fire and the fairy lights on the Christmas tree.

Mycroft looked confused as he came back in the room but accepted the brandy and sat beside Greg on the sofa.

“It seems to be working,” Mycroft admitted. “Mummy is very taken with you. Who imagined you were such a good actor?”

“I've done a lot of undercover work,” said Greg. “But this is the easiest thing I've ever done, pretending to be in love with you.”

“As it is for me,” added Mycroft  _ Because it's true _ raced to his tongue but he managed to bite it back.

“I think I'll go to bed.” Greg drained the last of his brandy and stood up. “Which side of the bed do you sleep on?”

“The left.”

“Good. I'd have fought you for the right. See you in the morning.”

Mycroft left it as late as possible before going upstairs and changing into his pyjamas. He crept into the bedroom but his stealth was unnecessary, Greg was out like a light and breathing heavily.

Gingerly, Mycroft got into bed and pulled the covers over himself, lying rigid in case he inadvertently moved to the other side of the bed. Eventually, he fell asleep.

He was sure he must have dreamed the warm arms around him in the night, holding him so close and wiping his tears away, softly whispering  _ I'm here. It's okay. Let it go, love. _ When he awoke, the bed was empty.

Delicious smells tempted Mycroft downstairs where he found Greg and his mother in the kitchen with his mum tucking into scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.

“Merry Christmas, love!” Greg exclaimed, gifting Mycroft with a warm kiss on the lips which made Mycroft blush, much to Greg's delight.

There was much to delight the older man that morning;Mycroft, in pyjamas with his hair an auburn mess of curls and spikes with no trace of the weeping storm he had endured during the night on his face, was one of the finest.

“Merry Christmas, Gregory, Mummy.”

“Your fellow is an excellent cook,” said Violet, pushing her plate away. “Bodes well for dinner later.”

“Yes he is,” said Mycroft proudly. “Is there some left for me, my love?”

The brilliance of Greg's smile at the endearment would have put the stars to shame.

“Take a seat, it won't be a minute.” he said.

They spent the rest of the day quietly, Hazel being their only visitor who whisked Violet away to check her over while Greg basted the turkey and put the potatoes on to parboil.

“Is there anything I can do?” Mycroft asked.

“You can set the table. You know where your mum keeps everything so that'll be a big help,” replied Greg as he stirred the bread sauce.

By some unseen miracle, everything was ready on time and Mycroft marvelled again at Greg's hidden talents.

They ate around the kitchen table wearing cracker hats and groaning at the jokes, Greg making sure that Violet had the best bits of the meal to try and whet her appetite.

They left the kitchen looking like a small bomb had gone off and went into the living room to exchange gifts.

Normally Mycroft would have sent not-Anthea out to choose something tasteful and suitable but Greg had told him that he had it covered.

Violet was charmed by the thick cashmere throw to keep her warm, especially when paired with the wool and silk bed socks and a selection of lip balms and hand cream.

Mycroft hadn't known what to expect. He and Greg had never exchanged Christmas gifts before but he had to bite his lip to stop tearing up when he opened the jewellers box and found an exquisite pair of opal cufflinks with a tiepin to match.

“Gregory, these are beautiful. Thank you so much.”

“The opals remind me of your eyes,” said Greg softly. “The way they change colour with your mood.”

Mycroft hid his lovestruck expression by handing Greg his present and taking delight at his face when he unwrapped a brand new Breitling.

“Wow! It's gorgeous! Better not wear it for work or they'll think I'm on the take. Thank you, love. It's perfect.”

As they loaded the dishwasher the two men conversed in whispers.

“How did you come up with such a perfect gift for Mummy?”

“Sergeant Donovan. Her mum died of cancer a few years back and I remember Sally telling me that her mum always felt cold and that her lips got very dry and sore with the medication. I thought it was a good idea.”

“It was inspired. But the cufflinks...they must have been expensive?”

Greg snorted and grinned at Mycroft.

“Says the man who bought his boyfriend a Breitling.”

Mycroft could only blame a rather larger amount of Merlot at dinner than he was used to for what he said next.

“I wish you were. And have done for a very long time, Gregory.”

“Wish I were what?” Greg asked, for he had indulged as well. Then the penny dropped. He carefully put the china plate he was holding down and took Mycroft's unresisting body in his arms.

“You're not ready for this,” he said gruffly. “Your emotions are all over the place even though you're pretending they're not. You cry in your sleep and it breaks my heart, Mycroft. I wasn't kidding when I said pretending I was in love with you was the easiest thing I've done because I'm not actually pretending. When all this…” Greg couldn't find the words and Mycroft could hardly breathe. “Is over and you've got your head on straight, we  _ will  _ talk. In the meantime…”

Mycroft knew what was going to happen before it did and he melted into the kiss Greg bestowed on him, his arms sliding round Greg's neck as Greg's tongue tentatively explored his mouth. It was the deepest, most satisfying kiss Mycroft had even experienced and he responded fully. When the kiss broke, both men were breathing heavily.

“Better finish these dishes. I can't see your mum being impressed with canoodling in the kitchen.”

The ensuing giggles dialled down the sexual tension nicely and Mycroft felt immeasurably better.

*

_ New Year's Day. _

Greg heard about Violet's death from a newly-returned Sherlock. He sent a wreath to the funeral home and a sympathy card to both Holmes brothers. And waited. In odd moments he worried about Mycroft and how he was coping and at night he remembered the kiss. Greg Lestrade was a patient man. He knew the best things were worth waiting for.

_ February _

Greg was finishing up the last of his paperwork when his office door opened and Mycroft walked in. Exquisitely dressed and with not a hair out of place as always but he was wearing the cufflinks as well as a look of nervous anticipation.

“Hi,” said Greg, his heart beating a staccato rhythm in his chest. “How are you, Mycroft?”

“Better,” Mycroft replied. “And I can only thank you for your patience, Gregory. I think it's time we had that talk now, don't you?”

Greg stood up and put his coat on.

“I'd like nothing better.” he said, guiding Mycroft out of the office and switching off the light.

The End.


End file.
